Bella Donna
by igotbinned
Summary: She could've been his female counterpart... well, apart from the fact that she was really beautiful beyond comparison. This is the story of how Sherlock Holmes gained another pressure point. Pardon the crappy summary,the content is very promising I assure you. Warnings for spoilers and such. Rating may rise from T to M. Chapter 3 is Up!
1. Snow White

**A/N: First Sherlock fiction I ever published. I'm not yet sure where the story is going exactly, but I hope you guys will like it. Constructive criticisms and reviews are very much welcomed!  
****Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, him and any of the series' characters.**

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Chapter 1 Snow White

It was half past eleven when the doorbell rang for just under a half-second. Interrupted, Sherlock who sat on his chair deep within his mind palace, looked up and stared at the door.

_Client._

"Mr. Holmes?" a feminine voice barely whispered at the other side of the door.

_Mid-twenties. Scared._

Sherlock got up from his seat and opened the door, and with it came the frail looking woman. He caught her as she bumped against him and her knees buckled under her. And she in turn clung onto the front of his shirt like dear life depended upon it.

_Pale. Chapped Lips. Blue nails. Undernourished. Fair skin. Deep black eyes. Natural black hair. Eurasian. Very heavy and pained breathing. Warm skin. Cold sweat. Dilated pupils. Poisoned._

She looked up at him, black eyes staring at steel gray ones. "Help me…" Her eyes then lost focus and dimmed, her head lolled to the side as she lost consciousness.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called. He eased the unconscious woman into his arms, adjusting her frail body to better carry her.

The landlady, roused by the bell and the detective's call, exclaimed a short prayer as she ran up 221B Baker Street's steps and saw the woman in Sherlock's arms. "Is she–? "

"No! Not yet." He barked at her. "Get me Watson!" Sherlock picked up the insensible client and brought her to his room, carefully maneuvering around the various objects in disarray on his floor. He carefully lay her down, and then checked her pulse.

Mrs. Hudson dialed John and Mary's home number and anxiously waited. She followed Sherlock into his room and took a good look at the young lady who was apparently dying. "Sherlock, if she's—"

The glare he sent her way was enough to cut off her words. "If she wanted to go to the hospital, she wouldn't be lying here on my bed, would she?" He then turned his attention to his dying client, and shook his head upon taking her pulse. Sherlock abruptly stood up and pried the mobile from Mrs. Hudson, just as John picked up.

"Watson, I have a heavily poisoned client who needs your medical attention."

"Sherlock, if—" from the other side of the line, Watson groggily commented.

Sherlock grind his teeth together. "Stop cutting me off, Watson! She's barely holding on, you're a doctor. It's your duty to come to the aid of those who need you!" He screamed angrily. Unsolved cases were regrettable, but clients dying at his doorstep were completely unacceptable.

"Okay Sherlock, calm down. Mary's calling a cab right now."

For a second, he thought that it was probably not a good idea to bring the very pregnant woman along, but then, he only shrugged. "Okay John, you're on speaker." Sherlock got out of his room, put the phone down on the kitchen table and then paced to and fro in the living room. "The poison may have been given intravenously or thru inhalation or a bite," he spoke aloud. He then paced back into his room with the intent of checking up on his theory, when the landlady stopped him short from the doorstep.

"I'll take it from here." She said, eyeing Sherlock warily. He frowned at her, then turned on his heels, back into the living room. Mrs. Hudson carefully shut the door. After a few moments, she opened the door again, "She has no marks on her whatsoever. She didn't inhale anything. Her mouth is clean but there's some kind of smell."

John who was patiently waiting from the other side of the line tutted. "Sherlock, I think it would be best to call an ambulance and bring her to a hospital. "

Sherlock ran into his room, sat down at the side of the bed and unceremoniously opened the lady's mouth and stuck his nose near her face. "Strange. Very strange." He then rushed out and went to a pile of stacked books and papers at the corner of the sitting room. "Mrs. Hudson! Did you touch my things?!" He irritably chided.

In the background, John's exasperated sigh can be heard. The landlady paled by a small measure. "I put some of your books neatly in your shelf; the loose papers are in a box behind John's chair."

Sherlock stormed to the shelf and picked out a few of the books. He laid them on the kitchen table and hurriedly skimmed through the pages.

"Sherlock, Mary and I are on our way. Speak to me." John hollered over the phone.

Sherlock pursed his lips and continued leafing through the books. "Very slow pulse, Watson. Dilated pupils. It may have started as food poisoning, and was then deliberately continued." He exacted a cry. "There's so many things she could have been poisoned with!"

Mrs. Hudson busied herself with the unconscious patient as Sherlock continued what he was doing. She was brushing the young lady's hair when the unconscious started to stir.

"Hey, darling, it's okay…" the landlady muttered.

The woman then opened her eyes with a start. She looked at Mrs. Hudson and cried out in a hoarse voice. "Leave me alone!" She sobbed. "Leave me be, demon!" The raven-haired woman dragged herself away from Mrs. Hudson who only looked on.

"She's back!" Sherlock exclaimed rushing into his room and seeing the woman cringe away from the landlady. "Hah! Hallucinations! Watson?"

Mary, who was also listening into the conversation with John on the other line, cleared her throat. "Does she have blue nails and chapped lips?"

The consulting detective rushed out of his room and into the kitchen where he left Mrs. Hudson's mobile on the table. "Yes and yes, familiar Mary?"

Mary looked at her husband, and though he frowned at her he urged her to go on.

"Yes, poisoning by Bella donna seeds. Well, I just—"

"Thank you, Mary! Watson and I will do our best that she won't turn out like that." Sherlock's face turned grim. He carried the phone with him back to his bedroom and looked at his client.

Mrs. Hudson looked up at him as he entered the room. "She blacked out again."

He eyed his unconscious client. "You fixed her hair? Lipstick?" He inquired, raising his brow at her.

The landlady looked at him, and then at the unconscious girl. "Yes, she looked awfully pale. I thought it would make her look less…pale."

Sherlock strode to the bedside and checked the lady's pulse again. "Coffee, Mrs. Hudson, if you please."

Mrs. Hudson nodded and shuffled out of the room to do as he bid.

"Fascinating," the detective muttered to himself. "A real life Snow White."


	2. Retching

**A/N: Oh my! Thanks for the reads, reviews, faves and the followers! ****It's so heart-warming to know that people are interested in my first ever Sherlock fanfic. Please read and review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, him or any of the series' characters.**

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Chapter 2 Retching

Mr. and Mrs. Watson arrived at Baker Street at ten before midnight. John fixed his wife's coat around her as they stepped off the cab and then wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck. Mary gave him a warm smile and shooed him off to hurry.

"I'll be fine love, go on."

John nodded and then ran up the steps of 221B. He let himself inside the open door into Sherlock's room, where he found the detective sitting down, leaning against a wall, looking quite bewildered and with some kind of red stain on his mouth. He then looked at the frail looking woman on the bed and he took a sharp intake of breath. "Is she—?"

_Short quick breaths. Tensed body. Ran up the stairs._

Sherlock shook his head and cleared his throat. "She's still alive. She had a cardiac arrest just before you came in."

John nodded, strode into the room and sat beside the unconscious girl. He checked her pulse, and then took a vial and a sterilized syringe from the small bag he carried and injected it into her arm.

_Cold sweat. Lip biting. Nervous._

He proceeded to do the routine check-up and then looked at his friend and smiled weakly. "She'll live. She's just very weak. From what Mary told me and from what I can see, she had been poisoned by those seeds for quite some time."

Mary came in, her hands on her belly and sat down unto the nearest chair she could find. She exchanged greetings with Mrs. Hudson as the landlady came up with biscuits and hot tea.

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded, got up and out of the bedroom and into the sitting room.

_Hand on her belly. Wan smile. Slight paling. Just two to three weeks remaining. _

He got curious glances from both Mary and Mrs. Hudson, and then remembered his lipstick-stained mouth. Mary handed him a handkerchief and he wiped his mouth with it. "Thank you." He grabbed a biscuit from the tray Mrs. Hudson came in with, and then went into the kitchen to pore over the books he had leafed through earlier.

John, after fastening an IV drop on the bed's headboard, and then checking that the woman is no longer in immediate danger, went out of the room. He gave Mrs. Hudson a warm hug, grabbed a couple of biscuits and sat beside his wife.

"Bella donna seeds, hallucination, sleep-walking, nightmares." Sherlock muttered. "There's nothing on how to treat a person poisoned by it. Ideas, Watson?"

"Well, if this was poisoning by ingestion, we could try to make her vomit most of it. But by the way that she looks, her body can't handle any retching." John offered the biscuit to Mary.

Sherlock pursed his lips and searched the room. He then strode to the various beakers of strange colored liquid in the far corner of the room and picked one out.

"Sherlock, you have to wait till she's awake to make her drink that. Although I doubt anybody would drink that." John grimaced. "And she's too weak. You have to give her some time."

The black haired detective glared at his partner. "She has to get it out of her system or she won't last till daybreak Watson. Need I remind you that she's been gradually but heavily poisoned?" Sherlock went into the room and looked at the unconscious woman.

_Quick short breathing. Rapid eye movement. Nightmares._

John, let out an exasperated sigh and followed after him. The doctor went to his patient and checked her pulse. He then took a piece of cotton and placed it under the woman's nostrils.

Slowly, the woman came into consciousness. She looked at John blankly and then at Sherlock. She opened her mouth and started to ask something in a hoarse voice and foreign language.

_Where? French. Now German. Widening of the eyes, quickening of breath intake. Panicking._

"You're in 221B Baker Street, Miss." Sherlock told her in German. Then, realizing that John would've been staring blankly at the two of them, reverted back to English. "You came from somewhere countryside. You probably walked a mile or less, though I'm surprised you were able to do so, given your current condition. And then you hailed a cab, you got off a few blocks from here. You buzzed in at half past ten. You were scared and almost dying. Though you still looked like you are." Sherlock spoke in litany. He stood at the other side of the bed and handed her the dubious looking liquid in the beaker. When she only stared at him and then at the beaker, he sat himself beside her on the bed. "If you don't drink this, you'll die of poisoning within the next few minutes."

Her dark eyes widened but she let out a soft sigh.

"Good! At least there's someone willing under this roof that had enough sense to do my bidding!" Sherlock carefully raised her head and brought the beaker to her lips. "Swallow it down, it won't taste so bad if you hold your breath."

John can only look at them in bewilderment.

The woman finished the dubious looking drink after a handful of gulps. Sherlock then handed the beaker to John. "You have to get up though, you wouldn't want to soil yourself as you retch that out," he said as he helped her into a sitting position.

Mrs. Hudson came in with a faded tin bucket. "I'll take it from here, yes?" She looked at the men.

Sherlock and John shuffled out of the room and let the landlady help their client as the retching started. They sat at each of Mary's side, and she patted their knees. She looked at the sleuth and smiled, "She's out of the woods. It may be a long night, but I suggest you don't drink coffee Sherlock."

The grey eyed man pursed his lips and nodded. "Yes." Pause. "We all know that I get too hyped when I have caffeine in my system."

John and Mary laughed a little. The doctor kissed his wife by the temple and said, "Get some sleep, love." He looked at his best friend. "I'll watch over our patient after Mrs. Hudson's done with her."

Mary smiled at her husband and then at Sherlock. "It's okay if you want to play your violin. I wouldn't mind. The music soothes the baby and I'll get some sleep," she said. She rose from the seat and John helped her to his room in 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock got up and took his Stradivarius from its case. He then started to play the Requiem as he succumbed into his mind palace once again.


	3. The Midnight Visitors

**A/N: I'm so happy that my story is getting so many views. Although I would really love to hear from my readers. Anyway, thanks for the reads, reviews, faves, and followers. I hope you guys will continue looking forward to the story and character development.  
****Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, him or any of the series' characters.**

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Chapter 3 The Midnight Visitors

_Identity? Eurasian. Well educated. Definitely upper class. Nobility? Probable. Is it enough cause for abduction, detention and possibly attempted murder? Abduction and detention quite possible. Murder? Very little information and so many unknown._

John listened to the sad music his friend was playing as he lay down beside his wife on his small bed in Baker Street. He tried to apply what he learned from Sherlock to determine the identity of their client, but all that he can deduce is the apparent upper class status and her well verse of German. His mind then wandered into the lady's health condition, and his face turned grim. He knew that Sherlock is aware that they can't just keep her in the apartment. The client needs medical attention far more than he can give and John is aware that another cardiac arrest would do her in. The doctor frowned as he thought of the best way to convince Sherlock to bring the lady to the hospital.

When he finally decided on the approach he plans to use, he noticed the dead silence in the apartment. John shifted and got up slowly, keeping from waking up his pregnant wife. He kissed her gently by the temple before he left the room and went to the kitchen where he found Sherlock intensely staring at the laptop screen. John, knowing better than to interrupt his friend's train of thought he strode towards the other bedroom. Just as he lay his hand on the knob, the bell rang again for half a second.

Sherlock was instantly up on his feet and towards the door.

_White thinned hair. Very wrinkled face and hands. By the state of his stooped figure and the necessity of a cane, I'd say seventy at most. His face is very familiar though... Ah, yes! Former Prime Minister Sir Howard Roth! Quiet wheezing and dark bags under his eyes. He hasn't been sleeping well for some time. Ah! Here comes Mr. Charles Roth, I see he isn't as tall as Janine said. With the same dark eye bags and bloodshot eyes. Hmm... so he prefers whisky. Must be a family affair, something very private._

"Watson, get a chair from the kitchen," he called.

John, who was curious as to the identity of their midnight visitors did as he was asked. He carried the chair to the sitting room and found their visitors to be an old man and a younger man, both impeccably dressed in dark suits. He offered the chair to the younger of the two, for the older already sat on the client's chair. John sat on his worn out seat and watched his friend's face as he sat across the sleuth.

"Watson, you may be familiar with Mr. Charles Roth, a colleague of Mycroft's and his father, Sir Howard Roth, our great country's former Prime Minister of nine terms past," Sherlock introduced. "Gentlemen, my dear friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson."

John nodded at the two men.

The younger Roth looked at his father and sighed. "I'm sorry for the lateness of the hour, Mr. Holmes, but you must understand that we would like to keep the nature of our visit in discretion."

The older Roth cried out. "Mr. Holmes, please help us find my daughter." He took out a picture from his breast pocket and handed it to his son, who then gave it to Sherlock.

John watched as Sherlock's eyes glittered in excitement, yet he kept his lips pursed. The sleuth handed the picture to his friend and the doctor recognized the reason for his friend's behavior. John looked up at the two men and then back at the picture, "I'm afraid I can't see the resemblance, sir."

The older Roth gave them a wan smile. "You are wondering how somebody so young and so much unlike me happened to be my daughter." His eyes misted. "I was on the last year of my term when I met a beautiful Japanese interpreter. She was only a few years younger than me, but her Asian ancestry and genetics made her look much younger than her real age. After my retirement, we started to go out on dates. That time, it had been two years since I became a widower and I found no harm in finding another person to be my partner in life. After a year, we got married. We didn't expect that she'd still be able to get pregnant at her age, but we warmly and lovingly welcomed our child into the world. Charlie here had been ten years old then, and his relationship with Keiko was going well. He too looked forward to having a younger sibling. Keiko had a difficult pregnancy but she said it was all worth it when Addy was born. She was her mother's spitting image but she bore the slender lanky build of the Roths. We lived as a happy family for another seven years and then Keiko was taken away from us by cancer." The old man was already weeping when he finished his tale.

_Caring is a disadvantage._

The younger Roth cleared his throat and wiped the tears from his eyes. "We pampered Addy, sent her to the best schools, let her do as she pleased. She grew up to be very beautiful and intelligent despite our spoiling, yet she remained very loving and kind. She does a lot of charity and volunteer work and she travels a lot, yet despite her apparent busy schedule she manages to call us every night. She never failed to call to bid our father a good night's rest," he related.

"That had been true until the start of this week," the older Roth said.

Sherlock handed a note to John and then the doctor excused himself. "Pray continue," the sleuth told the former Prime Minister.

The younger Roth took out a piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to Holmes. "We received this note, two nights ago. It read: We have Adele. Don't contact the police. I have employed a handful of trusted friends to trace the source of this note, but nobody can tell us who has our Addy. We had been beside ourselves since, until your brother Mycroft pointed us to you."

Sherlock read the note, and true enough it only contained the two sentences mentioned.

_Slanting yet curved hand writing. A woman's. Ordinary stationery, can be bought from any store at a cheap price. First name basis. Either somebody who knows the victim or someone who did her homework well._

"Have you asked Ms. Adele's acquaintances? Boyfriend perhaps?"

The younger Roth chuckled a little. "You must have misunderstood Mr. Holmes. Addy maybe sweet, loving and kind, but her superior intelligence make her seem to be too intimidating for most men. She presented to us only one boyfriend, and that was when she was in college. After him, nobody else."

Sherlock frowned. "Friends?"

John handed the younger Roth a piece of loose paper and a pen. He then proceeded to offer the former Prime Minister tea, which was accepted gratefully.

"Addy had a lot of friends and acquaintances and they're too hard to keep up with and be remembered all the time. But there are a handful few who are always with Addy or mentioned by Addy," the younger Roth said as he scribbled names on the sheet.

The older Roth settled down his tea cup and looked intently at Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes, I'm prepared to pay whatever amount, to give whatever you see fit as the price for looking for our Addy," he plead.

Sherlock scanned the names on the paper the younger Roth handed him.

_Upright almost undecipherable hand writing. Definitely alcoholic but keeps it a secret from his own father._

"I will take your case."


End file.
